A Second Chance
by dorothyyy
Summary: "It was at that point that he realised the truly reprobate actions that had just now taken place. Basil Hallward had wanted to utter something, a final prayer, perhaps a plea of forgiveness to his friend, but his brain was growing hazy with a crimson mist, so he had settled for a conclusive thought, and it was as follows."


Basil Hallward sat alone in his Parisian studio. The armchair that he sat in was an old thing, made of luxurious wine-coloured velvet. It had been found at a market that he had passed on his travels through Europe, the trip that he had embarked on just a month ago. Basil himself had taken great pleasure in this find, and he had continued to collect increasing amounts of classic furniture, until his studio was a place where one was unable to take a step without one's space being invaded by a boudoir or an ottoman or perhaps a tuffet lined in nacre-coloured lace. However, despite all these chattels filling the emptiness in his studio, the man Basil Hallward still felt strangely vacant inside, as if there were a vacuum in his stomach, inhaling any contented feelings that should arise from his work, and replacing it with the black slime of sinfulness, burning him alive internally. It could not be helped. The man knew that he should be grateful for his own vitality, but, frankly, he was insatiable in his hunger for profusion of beauty in his work. So as he sat in his recliner it was all he could do to sweep his fingers over the jagged scar just under his ear, the only proof of that wicked night. Was it not just a month ago that he had felt a beautiful man creep up behind him, stroking warm fingers across the back of his neck, and then a feeling that was a lot more frigid? Hallward had immediately slumped in that ancient, rickety chair, hands still pressed together in a final desperate prayer. It was at that point that he realised the truly reprobate actions that had just now taken place. Hallward had wanted to utter something, a final prayer, perhaps a plea of forgiveness to his friend, but his brain was growing hazy with a crimson mist, so he had settled for a conclusive thought, and it was as follows:

Please, cleanse this man of his peccany. He has done wrong, it is true, but I feel a strange devotion to him. Yes, Lord, you may see the corruption of his soul. I have as well. I do not know what will become of him, or why I have been given this ability to bear my soul on a canvas, or the soul of Dorian Gray for that matter, but I abjure to you, let him be forgiven. And as for myself, I only sigh to set my brush to the canvas once more, and portray the likeness of this man anew, for his pulchritude is still breathtaking to me. Perhaps I have deviated in falling for his beauty, but even as I gather these words inside my head, I can feel the clock ticking. I am still in love with this man's allurements, and I pray you will forgive me for that as well.

Hallward remembered a thump and a click of the door closing, and he prepared himself for the murkiness that was soon to envelop his brain.

It had not come. All that was left was an ache in his neck and the dull internal thumping that was coming from his pulse. Basil had raised his head slightly, surprised at his ability to do so. He blinked at the aphotic room, his gaze scanning over the portrait which was still grinning at him flagitiously. There was more than a bit of vermilion blood on its hands. He felt a sudden overwhelming urge to throw the curtain over the horrid thing, but he found himself unable to move.

"What hell is it that I have lived to see?" Basil pondered aloud before the darkness of a sudden comatose swept over him once more. His head thumped against the table in an unconscious beat.

A few hours went by, or was it a day? Basil remained very much alive; and strangely, inconceivably so. His body refused to resign, his salubrity building up with the odd vigour of a healing man. Why was it that he was still alive? he wondered in his odd moments of waking. Perhaps death had refused him. How was that so? Anyhow, it was not almost six hours later that the door creaked, a single shaft of light appearing as it swung open. A silhouette emerged, and Basil found himself retracting towards the window fearfully, just slightly, enough to make the silhouette shake a bit.

"Who goes there?" Hallward hissed.

The silhouette started, closing the door behind itself fearfully. It cautiously approached Hallward, the face suddenly illuminated and bony in the incandescence.

"Are you here to escort my self to the afterlife?" Basil asked the unfamiliar face insistently. He was not a young man, with greasy hair and a quivery disposition. He did not seem at all like a being of the underworld, and immediately after the question was posed, Hallward found himself filled with regret.

"Ah, no, sir. My name is Alan Campbell. I believe I have been employed to dispose of your body?"

The man posed this as a question, despite it truly being a statement. He held up a kit of various chemicals.

Basil pursed his lips dismally.

"Very well. Make quick use of it then. I should not like to feel any more discomfort than I have already experienced. How strange it is, the oddities of the mind. I had truly convinced myself that I was alive, for my own head had simulated a cognisant reasoning. You simply stand there, Mr. Campbell? I am ready to be disposed of. My life has been much too long as it is. I have unknowingly seen some of the worst wrongdoings, and I am a tired old man. Yes, you may dispose of me, you have my permission. You shake your head? And why is that, sir?"

The man, Alan Campbell, made an incredulous expression at Basil Hallward, and Basil found himself disliking him immensely.

"Why? Because, Mr. Hallward, you are quite alive, are you not? It rightly would be murder to get rid of your remains, as you seem to have none. I regret to inform you that you are very much alive, sir, and so I will not be using this."

"Am I really? How can that be so?"

"I do not know. But I would highly suggest that you make yourself scarce, as Mr. Gray was inclined to think that you were bereft of life, as was his intention, and I do believe that he would not be pleased to know that you were not. I will burn a bit of frankincense to mislead him. Now, there is the open window, Mr. Hallward."

And so it was in that manner that Basil had been led out of his chair and to the window. It was quite a long drop, but Alan Campbell had aided him with a long rope. It was odd, how easy it was, for an man who had been so close to death just a few hours ago, to climb down that rope with such ease. Basil had peered around equivocally, before disappearing into the night, without saying good-bye to the inarguably vile Alan Campbell.

With that, he had boarded his train to France in search of some new muse for his art.

That was where he sat now, head in hands, trying to fathom why his art was slowly deteriorating in taste. It was not the fault of Hallward himself, as he simply painted what was on his mind. However, recently, his paintings seemed to have a mind of their own, his hand acting by its own accord, painting blooming landscapes covered in blood, and gruesome dead men, whose faces looked suspiciously like his own.

Basil stood with a jolt, a tremor going through him as lightening strikes a sapling. This was not uncommon for him, for as of late, he had been having extreme pain in his head. It had first started with the news about poor Dorian. The fellow had met quite an unfortunate fate, having been found in the attic of his home in England. There were various other rumours about the matter, the most common being that it was all some elaborate scheme that would cause people to gossip about, growing bored of his natural fairness. He was corrupt, that was for sure, but there was more to it than that. His remains had been burned, and Basil's painting had been sent to back him. It had curiously been restored to its former beauty, but despite this, Basil had refused to look at it. Despite its being his finest work.

However, there were some who had quite different theories about Dorian's disappearance. There were in fact some that thought that there was some supernatural aspect to it as well. As if Mr. Gray had given up his soul to corruption in exchange for his unarguably attractive face. These, of course, were nonsensical conjectures which Basil preferred to ignore. Thinking of Dorian was making Basil feel increasingly jumpy. Dorian, with his lessened sense of right and wrong and his majestic features. Who had brought a knife to his neck.

A fit of hysterical hiccoughing came upon him, and he rang the bell for his new butler, who was already appearing at his door in an uptight manner.

"Sir?"

Basil coughed.

"Ah, yes, if you do not mind, I would quite enjoy a cup of tea. Make it strong, my head is pounding. Send a letter out to Lord Aubertine, explaining that I really will not be able to attend his dinner-party. It is quite a tragedy, but he will understand. Perhaps say that I have had a stroke of genius, and I am working on a new painting! Yes? Yes of course, that is what I will tell him. He always was quite infatuated with my dexterity. Those were his words, not my own. Do not look so shocked, I am capable of a lie."

"I was not, my lord. But you realise you have a visitant, do you not?"

Basil narrowed his eyes apprehensively. He was not expecting anybody. In fact, he had not had a guest visit him since the night before he had gone to see Dorian. It had been Lord Wotton, and the exchange had been merely because they were about to go to the club.

He had shown Wotton one of his newest paintings, which they were both aware was frightfully distasteful, for the reason that he had not seen Dorian in quite a While, and he had been attempting to paint a bowl of fruit.

It was an arid and well-worn idea, he had admitted upfront to Lord Henry, who had responded, "My good man, I much prefer to make it a habit to look at as little tasteful art as possible. It makes the good art all the more enchanting. Every good artist must try a new form of expression once in a while, and yours seems to be this wretched painting. It is fine. I am quite content looking at something so dislikable. But if I do say so myself, I much preferred it when you did those splendid portraits of Dorian. And my, what has become of him? I do say it has been almost a fortnight since I have seen that enigmatically delightful man! Perhaps we shall pay him a visit after we go to the club!"

"Yes, perhaps, if we should ever arrive at the club. My hansom is awaiting us. Come," Basil had replied unmindfully.

Howbeit, Basil was sure that whoever had decided to call on him was not Lord Henry Wotton, for Harry was not aware that he was alive. Nobody was, in fact. Who could it be?

"Send him in, I suppose," he muttered, and the butler closed the door.

A moment later, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Basil cried, and the door swung open.

Basil heard a few footsteps and then a silky voice saying, "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Hallward. I do so appreciate it."

The artist was about to utter a word of obligation when he looked up, and saw the man addressing him.

He was clad in a porphyry-coloured suit, not a thread out if place. There was a jade pocket square protruding out of his pocket, and he was dressed exactly the way he had been when he had first called on Basil, the day that he had first stood for him.

Sapphire eyes regarded him apprehensively, while Basil peered at him in a consternate manner.

"Excuse me, have we met before?" the fellow asked, and Basil found himself unable to assimilate how this is possible.

"No, I suppose not."

Dorian smiled, "My name is Dorian Gray. I live in England and I have adored your paintings for a Very Long Time. My good friend, Lady Narborough had informed me that you were in need of somebody to stand for you and, well, it would be a great honour if you were to use my likeness. I am a bit plain, I suppose, but perhaps if you were to change my features a bit, with your propensity for genius, it would be doable, Mr. Hallward"

Dorian looked quite flustered at this point, his milky skin flushing charmingly pink. Basil Hallward was struck by him once more, and unintentionally so. But this was not the Dorian that he had met a month ago, with the reprehensible lilt to his every utterance.

"My dear boy, your features are as enchanting as I have ever seen," Basil murmured, and Dorian Gray looked positively timorous, "However, I simply cannot paint you. I am quite afraid, in fact, that I cannot."

"Why?"

Basil thought about the matter at hand. It seemed, almost, as if Dorian had changed from a state of non-existence to being very much alive once more. But why was he paying Basil a visit? Whoever he was, if the man had arrived all the way from England, Basil was definitely obligated to paint him, was he not? Of course! With this, Basil rationalised painting this man, who was looking positively angelic with his head of exquisitely auricomous hair and dressed perfectly for a new portrait.

"I was simply jesting, my dear boy. Of course I will paint you. Here now, please approach me so I can look you over."

Dorian grinned jovially, striding over to Basil and presenting himself. Basil held his arms and leaned close, admiring the intricate ultramarine of the boy's eyes in a manner that the disagreeable, corrupt Dorian would never have allowed him to do. Basil strode around him. Everything was untarnished, from his lovely face to the skin on the tips of his delightfully pale fingers. Hallward tilted the boy's head to the side, exposing the beryl-coloured veins on the side of his neck. Taking two fingers, he pressed down on the boy's pulse point, awed to find the tiny flutter of a pulse under his digits.

"Mr. Hallward?" Dorian questioned diffidently.

Basil stepped back.

"You may call me Basil, if you like. I am ready to paint you now. Forgive my intrusion, but when a painter does a portrait, he must ensure that he is able to exude the very essence of his subject, and you are the ideal subject. Why do you look so taken aback, my dear boy? It is true, you are splendid. Really, Dorian, you are magnificent! Your figure is simply statuesque, your exquisitely good looks are marvellous. I am unable to comprehend how I am going to express the purity and fairness that you are. I shall show you, allow me to draw you. Tilt your head, Dorian. Now stand still for me like a good boy. Yes, that is perfect."

Dorian was practically beaming by this point, trying his best to maintain a serious moue, but finding himself unable to sit still. To have such an accomplished artist complimenting him in such a blatant and seemingly honest way was positively thrilling. He watched Basil, who seemed to be enraptured in his work, the charcoal that he was using making the occasional squeak on the canvas. He mapped out the boy's high cheekbones, the twinkle in his eyes, and the smallest details, such as the delicate beauty mark that was placed in a lovely way next to his mouth, and somehow made his appearance all the more paradisiacal to take in. Despite the wretchedly morbid paintings that he had been composing of late, the man somehow found it easy to sketch the boy in all of his innocence and delicacy. Dorian found himself vellicating nervously, the blissful energy that came from Basil's kind words replaced by a sudden nervousness. The man did not speak while he worked, and his expression had rapidly changed from supreme animation to something more serious, as he focused on drawing the boy in all of his glory in an obsequious way. Just as Dorian was about to ask if he may have a drink, Basil uttered a vociferation of happiness and put down his charcoal pencil and smiled.

"Are you finished? May I see? Oh, I do hope you are done, Mr. Hallward," Dorian cried blissfully.

"Patience, dear boy. I am only but finished with the outline. I am sorry to have made you wait, and I am sorry that we have not been able to converse. You see, I do find it quite difficult to speak while I work, and you are not at fault for possessing such a comely but complicated disposition. I do hope you will stay for tea? And then we will complete your painting. And I pray to you, call me Basil. We are friends, are we not?"

"I am indebted to you, Basil," Dorian replied simply.

It felt wholly outlandish for Basil Hallward to have the boy that he had admired for so long watch him like this. It was slightly different, of course, for Basil watched Dorian for his unarguably good looks, and Dorian for Basil's artistic talent, however, it was still quite odd for Basil, and as they sat waiting for their tea he found it difficult to make conversation. Dorian made up for this wholeheartedly by speaking at length about his life in London, about when he had first seen one of Basil's paintings, describing a portrait that the man had composed a few months ago of Lady Victoria, a good friend of Mr. Hallward. This was curious to Basil, as he had always thought of that portrait as a Quite Inaccurate portrayal of her likeness. Dorian, on the other hand, seemed to speak of it as an artistic standard for all painters in London, and refused to allow Basil to dictate otherwise.

It was at this point that the butler entered with two steaming china cups filled with hot tea, and a plate of biscuits. The two men threw themselves down on the velvet daybed.

Basil paid him leave, elevated his cup to his lips and sipped delicately. Dorian, on the other hand, was filling his cup with a bit too much sugar and cream. The artist smiled at the boy affectionately, angling his body towards him despite Dorian's obvious preoccupation with his tea.

"Do you yourself wish to be a painter?" Basil asked him, despite his already knowing the answer. They had discussed this at length upon their first meeting, and Dorian had concluded that he would much rather be Something Else. He was not sure what, exactly, but he wished to be Something Else.

"Oh, no- Definitely not! Well, if I were any good at it, I suppose I would. I do not want a job. I want to travel. I want to stay at home. I want to contradict myself as much as possible. I do not know what I want. It is quite dull remaining at home, and yet the moment one steps outside one's home, one is bombarded with covetousness and peccancy wherever one turns one's head. Ah, but Basil, the world is awaiting my opening ceremony. I have only but just arrived. Do you understand?"

"I believe so," said Basil with not a bit of incredulity, "And I am going to tell you a story now, if I may. May I? Excellent. When I was a young man, I was about to display my first painting, and needless to say, I was quite perturbed. And well I should have been. That painting was the most wretched thing I had done. It was of a mermaid washed up on a beach, based, of course, off of the famous tale of The Fisherman and his Soul. You know the one? Of course not. Well, I was about to display it, and my good friend, Mr. Wotton gave me some Very Good Advice when he said, 'Basil, you overestimate yourself. Yes, you heard me correctly. Honestly, you believe you are a more important artist than you truly are, and your self-absorption is exhausting.'

And I had replied in bewilderment, denying his statements, and reminding him of his true madness, as I do, and he had smiled and patted me on the back and said, 'I hope you are aware that half the time, I do not mean what I say. People who believe that truthfulness is the only merit are liars in themselves, and you are truly blessed with such a gift.' That was the extent of what he had said on the matter. And I believe that is when I began to understand why Harry says the most recidivous things that he does. It is not because he believes he is resistant to the abhorrence that it brings upon him, but quite the opposite. And I do also believe that I do not want to ever be like him."

Dorian was not a bit confused, but he listened with awe all the same, playing with the jade pocket square that protruded from his jacket, nodding occasionally, and drinking his sugar-filled tea. He put down his cup when Basil had finished his story.

"This Harry Wotton sounds like quite a refreshing fellow. Perhaps you could introduce me to him, Basil!"

"No!" Basil cried.

He found himself filled with a horror and trepidation at the mere thought of this, and he attempted to fathom why he felt this way. Was it not the ideas Lord Henry Wotton that had been Dorian's eventual downfall?

However, Dorian seemed ecstatic about the idea of meeting the man who had given him such depraved advice only a year ago. Basil would not stand for it.

"Come, let me finish my painting of you. You were not under the pretence that all I would offer was a simple charcoal sketch, were you? I will paint you, because there is a full spectrum of colours, and not one of them will be able to properly express how delightful you look in this light, the resplendence of your beauty is much too great. Stand, my dear boy! And wipe the cream off your nose. Despite how charming I find it, I have something quite different in mind for your portrait."

Dorian took a silken cloth that had been provided by Basil Hallward's butler, and proceeded to wipe the milk off of his upper lip as daintily as he could. Basil smiled, just momentarily, eyes flickering over the figure that he was about to paint, and Dorian's cheeks flushed elatedly. Basil set his brush to the canvas, having dipped it in the azure hue, and set to work on Dorian's eyes. He made them twinkle in a most accurate matter, adding depth with the navy and the periwinkle colours that were created by mixing white and black and yellow with the various paints.

The painting came together languorously, and Basil did not rush, nor did he speak. Dorian did not make any additional attempts at conversation, just stood until his leather-encased feet were beginning to feel not a bit sore, and yet he stood. He flicked his eyes over the room, taking in the coolly reflective ancient mirrors, and jumping a little at his own reflection. Trying to fathom how Basil could say such indulgent panegyrics about his own beauty, he heard Basil murmur; "Tilt your head to the side, darling."

He obliged and his feet hurt and he waited, entertaining himself with the thought that he was being painted by the great Basil Hallward, and soon he would have a portrait to take home.

As Basil's painting neared its completion, he felt a strange paroxysm of a sharp pain in his neck. His hand flew to the harrowingly unpleasant sensation, and Dorian hurried to his side.

"What is wrong, Basil? Who has injured you?"

The man looked up with watering eyes.

"Be at peace, my dear boy, be at peace. Stand for me once more, and I will complete my painting."

"Can you not complete it some Other Day? I would be happy to come back!"

Basil looked up, forcing the expression of pain and mild distress off of his face.

"Nonsense, go ahead and stand now."

A look of intransigence remained on Dorian's face but he obliged, returning to his location on the velvet carpet in the middle of the room.

Basil did not smile, simply returning to his simulacrum of Dorian. A brush stroke was added here and there, and even though this was a more complicated painting than had ever been attempted by Hallward, he found it to quite rightly be his best, surpassing even the wretched portrait of the boy that he had created and that which had been so highly praised. He painted Dorian in the same suit that he wore today, only altering the colours slightly, being careful to add in the pocket square that added such a provocative romanticism to the outfitting of the young man.

The painting was finished. How Basil knew, he was unaware. There was a certain "je ne sais quoi" to the light, as Lady Narborough would say, and it seemed to come together impeccably. Basil was so struck by how marvellously finished it looked that he gave a cry, and Dorian looked up with an exaggerated simper.

"Lo! it is finished. You may look. I allow you to. Really, Dorian. Do not look so concerned, I am not young, and pains like these are frequent. Youth suits you splendidly, and old age will suit you just as well, when the time comes. However, not all of us are as advantageous as you are. Come now! I do hope you like it."

And Dorian Gray stood in front of the canvas, this obvious baring of the soul. It was magnificent, in the most understated form, and Dorian found a few tears springing to his eyes, for this is what he saw:

On the canvas was a man kneeling over a puddle of pure water, the cool blue of an untouched sky. The man had a halo of saffron-blonde hair, and the cerulean eyes of a Greek god. Thick lashes framed them, and peered up at the spectator, who was Dorian himself, in this case. The picture was not only beautiful, portraying the best parts of Dorian in an enticingly honest way, but also being clever showing the golden-haired Dorian as some benevolent Narcissus with his reflection watching him as amorously as the boy was watching the viewer of the painting.

The ache in Basil's neck felt excruciating, but he smiled all the same, for he now knew that the tears that Dorian cried were not ones of a certain hatred for the painting, but rather of happiness, for Basil had nothing for the boy but to love his beauty, and express that in his painting.

"Basil," This utterance of the artist's name was not intentional, but slipped out like a prayer, "If you truly believe that my beauty is this striking, then I must ask another question. Do you think that I will be beautiful forever?"

And it was this solitary question, that led the laceration under his ear to feel as if it was about to split in two.

"My darling boy, you will be beautiful forever," he uttered through clenched teeth, "You are as exquisite as a child, who has never felt suffering. You are uncorrupt, you are pure. You are endearing without intending to be, and if I were to take a star from the sky, it would eventually stop burning, but you will not. Dorian, you will burn forever."

Dorian Gray looked up, and his eyes truly did look like sapphire stars in themselves.

"Mr. Hallward," he breathed, "Are you quite sure we have not met before?"

Basil shook his head vacillatingly, and Dorian exhaled, turning his attention back to the painting.

"You may have it, if you like," Hallward said.

"But it is beautiful, Basil. You should display it somewhere. Perhaps the new gallery that has opened in downtown London? I am sure it would look quite nice there."

"And perhaps not, for when one paints something so intimate to himself, so personal, one would not want to show it to anyone. Do you understand?" Basil asked peremptorily.

Dorian elevated his eyebrows in a petulant manner, but nodded, for he did indeed understand.

"I will send the painting over to your residency in London. Is that all right?" Basil asked, realising if he did not pay this boy leave very soon, the pain in his neck would grow all the more excruciating.

Dorian did not answer the question for a few moments, then turned to Basil, and said, "I have decided something. Upon meeting you, Mr. Hallward-Basil-, I thought of you as nothing more than a fantastic painter. But what I have come to realise is that your manner of artistry far exceeds my previous beliefs. You are just as beautiful as I. I have decided this. You laugh? Nay, but it is true. The means that make you beautiful are not the way that you reflect beauty, but the way you approach it-cautiously. Unlike all who I have met. The enigmatic quality that lies in your dark eyes makes you shine with a comeliness that is truly lovely."

"Dorian, my dear. I could never be as beautiful as you. And that is fine. I have had my time of juvenescence. We all have our times. It is now time for me to go."

"Basil, you speak as if nevermore will we see each other again."

Basil Hallward only but shook his head with a solicitous air, showing the boy to the door, and paying his butler leave when the man attempted to do the job by himself. Hallward held the door, throwing it open in a satisfied manner. It was then that Dorian Gray flushed an enamouring roseate hue, and brushed his lips against Basil's cheek in thanks. With that, he rushed out the door subitaneously, seemingly with the intention of not stopping.

However, halfway down the street, he turned back with wild eyes and seraphically golden hair and said, "Basil, you do think we will see each other again, do you not?"

The artist regarded the boy with a somber expression, watching his Dorian smile resolutely, and with an almost funereal air about him, and that pained Basil as much as the relatively caustic wound on his neck. Nonetheless, he forced a smile, his lips twitching upward in a complacent manner.

"I should hope so," said he, and Dorian Gray laughed elatedly, cantering away to catch a hansom.

Basil Hallward shut the door once more, dropping onto his knees on the hard, wooden floor. He called to his butler, but as he looked up he found himself to be quite alone. The pain on the right side of his neck burned him alive. It burned him dead.

As the man Basil Hallward sunk into his state of permanent unconsciousness, he felt oddly appeased. And after that, he felt nothing at all.


End file.
